


A Bloody Good Excuse To Touch

by comebackjessica



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bisexual Disaster Tommy Shelby, Disaster Gangsters, Humor, Idiots Pining, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Tickling, disaster husbands, tickle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comebackjessica/pseuds/comebackjessica
Summary: Alfie personally thinks he could, with some effort, convince God to grant him this favor and stop the Shelbys from RUINING him for five damn minutes. Specifically the tiny gangster one, that one... That one Alfie cannot take his eyes off of.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 17
Kudos: 82





	A Bloody Good Excuse To Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested on my tumblr, which made me very excited to write! And for my fav pair, too! And also, I cannot write anything short for the life of me. SO… This has 16 pages. I hope you enjoy!

Tommy has always been a sharp dresser, as far as Alfie was concerned. In turn, Alfie never liked fashion, never paid any attention to it. He knew what he liked and that was that. He was a practical man, first and foremost, unlike one certain Shelby that blossomed like a goddamn bird of paradise as soon as he acquired enough money. Alfie tried to joke about it once or twice, inciting the other man in order to get a reaction. Usually it was a huff or a glare, but sometimes… Sometimes it was that sharp “fuck off,” followed by a long cigarette drag. The man was lovely, he was honestly lovely. Alfie lamented his life.

The thing is, right, that Alfie – the genius that he was – started feeling like, after a while, just noticing or talking stopped being enough. Alfie figured that this whole fashion show that Tommy performed every time he swaggered around Alfie’s bakery like he owned the bloody place, now that...

That is a bloody good excuse to touch, if he ever saw one. And so Alfie did. Once or twice he commented on the fabric of the coat, sometimes on the shoes. Tommy just glared or stared blankly, rarely saying anything back. But then one day, there was a breakthrough.

“Not sleeping enough again, are we Tommy?” Alfie asked, as Tommy inspected a document before him, with scrutiny and exasperation akin to a teacher’s.

Tommy just huffed and raised his gaze to meet Alfie’s.

“What?” he asked, tone sharper than Alfie would’ve allowed from most.

“That’s the same shirt you wore yesterday, mate,” Alfie pointed his glasses at Tommy, then sat down behind the desk.

They’ve been sitting in his office for hours and Alfie’s back was acting up again. He took strolls around the room from time to time, commenting on this or that, generally being his delightful, distracting self, right… And Tommy just read the papers.

A lit cigarette burned at the edge of an ashtray, a rare privilege which Alfie nevertheless provided upon having already experienced the nightmare that was Tommy Shelby on nicotine deficiency. After another moment of silence, Alfie noticed Tommy didn’t even have the energy to finish this last cigarette, though. It’s been burning out on itself for the past ten minutes, permeating the office with its suffocating stench. Honestly, the lengths Alfie would go to for pretty men...

Tommy blinked a couple of times at the paper and turned it around, silently searching for an explanation for what was Alfie’s creative bookkeeping. That exasperation made it that much more worth it for Alfie. He shouldn’t find it as hilarious as he did, but… Sometimes Tommy huffed at the papers, too, especially when crossing out sharply the questionable bits. That one was one of Alfie’s favorites. Tommy pouted then, if just a tiny bit. Alfie was pretty sure Tommy didn’t even realise he was doing it at times.

As funny a pastime as provoking Tommy was, though, the man has obviously been growing more tired with each passing month. Alfie noticed he started to squint while reading, too. The bags under Tommy’s eyes grew bigger by the day, he was thinner, the man was honestly beginning to wilt. And Alfie, as it happens, right, Alfie considered himself to be an exceptional bloody gardener. Even though he never owned a garden in his life and never intended to have one, either. But Tommy… well, Tommy he’d gladly have, if somebody offered. Please and thank you.

“Alright, enough.” Alfie outstretched his hand. “Give ‘em back.”

Tommy squeezed the papers harder, obviously not happy to let them go.

“I’m not finished,” he said dryly. 

“Yeah, you are, mate. Done for today, go get some fuckin’ sleep, at least change your shirt,” Alfie took the papers back by force and locked them safely in a drawer. “I have a life, too, and as delightfully chatty as you are Thomas, I’m goin’ home.” Alfie eyed the other man suspiciously, as he closed his eyes and stretched a little in his chair. Was… was Tommy falling asleep?

“Alright, up!” barked Alfie, not one to be patient, even when a pretty man was concerned.

He tried to grab Tommy by the arm but the other man immediately winced and so Alfie’s hand accidentally squeezed a soft spot close to Tommy’s armpit. Tommy let out a tiny yelp and Alfie took a sudden step back.

Grave silence fell between them and for a second Alfie noticed an honest to God anxiety in the other man’s eyes. It was brief, granted, Tommy composed himself quickly, but Alfie was observant, alright?

“I ain’t gonna touch you,” Alfie said, slowly, his tone darker. “Just get the fuck out of my office.”

Tommy considered something for a moment, before getting up and grabbing his coat.

“Don’t ever touch me like that,” Tommy said, the hint of danger palpable in his voice.

“Get the fuck out!” Alfie roared behind him, which made no sense as Tommy was already miles out the door. For such a short man, he was a fast walker.

* * *

The next time they met, Tommy was back to his old, sharp self. Dismissive, yes. Impeccably dressed, clean, and _oh so fucking pretty_. Silent, too, but in a different way than before, Alfie noticed. Before it was comfortable, now – full of tension. And with possible silent murder plans on Tommy’s behalf.

“This is bloody unbearable, this,” Alfie huffed silently as he lowered himself back in his chair. 

Alfie pretended this was about his back but somehow felt like Tommy didn’t believe him. Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t even grace him with a reaction. Not an inch outside the line, not this time. Alfie lamented his life.

“Are you in pain?” Tommy asked, loud and clear. No more softer tones with this one. Everything was back to being by the book.

“Yeah, I’m in fuckin’ pain, thanks for asking!” Alfie rubbed his face to take his mind off of his back.

“You should see someone for that, then,” Tommy said, glancing up from the papers and looking straight at Alfie, cold and expressionless.

“Fuck you, I ain’t doin’ morphine again,” Alfie barked, accidentally giving away more than he wanted to. Pain would do that to him.

When he looked back, he noticed Tommy was intrigued. He lit a cigarette and held it, observing. Expecting more. Now, Alfie noticed, Tommy would smoke each and every one of his goddamn cigarettes, until they burned his fingers and had to be stubbed out. Like a good fuckin’ boy, that one. Back to proper and calculated. 

But yes, now Alfie had his attention.

“Why not?” Tommy said, picking his words carefully. Alfie hated that they were back to this caution.

“‘Cause I don’t, alright? Made me foggy. Doin’ stuff, stuff I couldn’t remember after, alright?”

“Grabbing people?” Tommy asked, but this time he smirked a little.

Alfie huffed and shook his head. Bloody hell, this man will be the death of him… 

“Well, I was not about to tickle ya, though, was I?” Alfie barked.

And there it was. That watchful anxiety, same as before. For a brief second Alfie considered if someone had maybe touched Tommy when they shouldn’t have, a pretty man like that must have had his share of unwanted attention. And then there was France… Then again, that wasn’t really Alfie’s problem, now was it? Honest to God, he didn’t do anything to him.

“Listen, Tommy…” Alfie said but Tommy interrupted:

“Don’t do that again,” he said, tone a bit softer, eyes a bit less watchful.

“Nah, I won’t,” Alfie said quickly. “Thought you were gonna pass out, is all, which, frankly… with my back, a bit inconvenient, innit?”

Tommy considered his next words carefully, Alfie saw it in his face, but then must have changed his mind because all Alfie got out of him was:

“Alright.” 

Then Tommy stubbed out the cigarette he was holding and took his leave.

* * *

The next time they met, it was in Tommy’s office. Alfie didn’t like to be summoned, especially not to The Garrison of all bloody places, but he shut up about it as soon as he saw the state of the other man.

“What the fuck did ya do to yourself this time, Tom?”

Alright, maybe “shutting up” was a bit of an overstatement but seeing the state of Tommy, Alfie was honestly worried. Not as worried as during their first meeting, because then he was too busy considering shooting him or fucking against his desk... and then shooting right after. Now, Alfie was just concerned. Bloody hell, he cared. He was doomed.

“I got shot,” Tommy said, trying to light a cigarette with one hand.

The other one was heavily bandaged, not very skillfully, and resting on an armband. Tommy had a dusty black coat thrown over his back, probably in an attempt to cover his bandages up.

“With a cannon?” Alfie asked before sitting down.

“Ha-ha,” Tommy said slowly but smirked all the same.

Tommy moved his head then, with the cigarette still between his lips. He tried another angle to light it, but his fingers didn’t seem to cooperate with the lighter.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie said and got up to take it away from Tommy. He lit his cigarette for him and stood there, watching.

“So what the fuck do you want? I don’t like being summoned, not by boys like you, not by bloody anyone.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“I never called,” he said calmly. “Who told you to come?”

“Your bloody brother, that’s what!”

“John?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Tommy! Calling me! Who the fuck do you think you are, fuckin’ Shelbys? What do you want, your last rites?!”

Tommy just chuckled and Alfie couldn’t believe his eyes. Then, Tommy looked at him and smiled in a dreamy sort of way that Alfie had only seen in those of his own.

“Fuck me…” he barked. “You’re high!”

Tommy puffed out a cloud of smoke and looked up, eyes half-closed, long lashes casting heavy shadows on his cheekbones.

Alfie couldn’t cope.

“I needed to tell you…” Tommy sighed and puffed out more smoke. “Alfie.” He cleared his throat. Alfie took the cigarette out of his mouth then and stubbed it out angrily in the nearby ashtray. 

“Fuckin’ what?” he growled.

“I need…”

Oh, _bloody hell._

“...someone trustworthy. To take me home. But why… Why are you here? No idea.”

Alfie was not about to throw hands with a high and injured Tommy Shelby. He really wasn’t. But he needed to punch _something,_ and as he dragged the half-conscious man out the main entrance of The Garrison, the other brother approached them. This one Alfie personally couldn’t stand.

“Oi!” Arthur bellowed. “What the fuck did you do?!” He looked accusingly at Alfie.

And Alfie snapped. Very rarely did that happen, but when it did all the hounds of hell couldn’t hold him down. The punch resonated all the way down the street, although Alfie wasn’t honestly as happy with the force of the punch. That could have been because, well, he still had to hold Tommy up. Arthur screamed and fell down but Alfie honestly didn’t have the patience to admire the view. He got Tommy, who was now mumbling nonsense in a language that Alfie couldn’t understand, inside the car, before entering himself. Then he just ordered his driver to get the fuck out. 

* * *

Now, Alfie knew how it looked. He really didn’t mean to kidnap a Peaky Blinder and hide him in his house, he really didn’t. But Tommy was high and unconscious and… for some reason John called Alfie. What was the bloody point, Alfie had no idea. The fact of the matter was, though, that Tommy’s wound got infected. Badly. He was obviously in pain since the bullet went through-and-through the bicep, and it was no small caliber, either. It grazed Tommy’s side on the way out and that probably meant his right hand was temporarily useless. 

Tommy was still high as a fucking kite when Alfie’s personal doctor got to the house. He offered Alfie more morphine for the patient and despite his own inhibitions, Alfie accepted the bottles and the syringes. They were now laid out on the nightstand, evenly like soldiers. Alfie eyed them suspiciously from time to time, sitting by the bed and trying to read. 

Tommy wasn’t unconscious anymore, now he just slept. In Alfie’s bed, of all places. So Alfie read his Russians novel, looking up from time to time to see if the idiot was still breathing, and Tommy slept.

In Alfie’s bed. 

Alfie kept reminding himself of that fact, from time to time.

Tommy woke up suddenly at four in the morning. Alfie knew because the bloody lunatic couldn’t have of course done it like normal people did. He sat up violently instead, gasping for air. Alfie, who had snoozed off in his armchair, woke up too.

“Bloody hell!” Alfie groaned, as Tommy took in his surroundings and tried to get up.

“Oh, the fuck you will!” Alfie was by his side in seconds, pushing him down and covering back with the blankets to the very tip of Tommy’s nose. “Down,” Alfie barked, in a tone not unlike that one might use with stubborn, albeit dangerous dogs. 

“I need…” Tommy cleared his throat. He looked around in bluish darkness and noticed the syringes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfie grumbled, noticing his gaze. 

Tommy was fearful for a minute that Alfie would say no. But Alfie was a stubborn man, not a cruel one. He switched on the nightstand lamp and took the closest syringe. Tommy watched, with peaked interest, as Alfie expertly filled it with morphine, checked the dose, checked the flow of the needle and almost mechanically sat down at Tommy’s side. Tommy offered his uninjured arm and Alfie skillfully inspected the inner arm for veins. 

“Make a fist,” Alfie requested calmly.

“You’ve done this before,” Tommy said, visibly relaxing.

“Aye, might’ve.”

Morphine acted quickly. Tommy’s eyes were heavy, the fist he made relaxed instantly. Not taking any chances, Alfie checked the man’s pulse, looking at his pocket watch and counting. Twice. Satisfied, he retreated to the bathroom to take a scalding hot bath. His back was fucked.

* * *

Nobody knew where Alfie lived, not even Ollie. He was not expecting the Peaky Blinders on his doorstep any time soon, but he didn’t exclude the possibility, either. They were clever bastards, after all, and protective of their kin. That made Alfie tense for a while, but it turns out that taking care of Tommy allowed him to take his mind off of the target on his back. He wished of course that Tommy would fuck all the way off to Birmingham, sure.

Sure.

But on the other hand, this was honestly a gift that Alfie couldn’t turn down. It went on like that for a while, Tommy sleeping and Alfie watching. Shooting him up with morphine from time to time, when Tommy really asked for it. Tommy seemed to know that Alfie was no fool, and so he never tried any games. But at the same time, Tommy was actually getting better. He ate what Alfie would give him without a word of protest, he stopped looking like a ghost, and even the bags under his eyes had disappeared at some point. So that was that. Alfie couldn’t argue with facts. The real adventure started, though, when the time came to change Tommy’s bandages. 

“Alright, listen.” Alfie, obviously, had the whole speech prepared. 

Tommy recovered rather quickly, wasn’t really bedridden anymore. He was now sitting comfortably in Alfie’s armchair in the living room, reading a book in French and at this point looking like he had always lived here. Alfie never actually asked if Tommy was really reading that or just pretended in order to spook Alfie. He was barefoot, wearing one of Alfie’s shirts, too, but apparently drew the line at pants. Fair enough, Alfie decided.

Tommy was now looking at Alfie from behind the book, resembling a cat that was woken from his nap and demanded to know the cause for this injustice. He wasn’t wearing the armband anymore but still only held things with his left hand, obviously trying to take it easy on the other one.

“First of all, you need glasses, mate. I know ya think you’re pretty and all, they will mess up the features, admittedly, but enough with the fuckin’ squinting!”

Tommy considered this for a second before simply nodding. Right.

“Is that it?” he asked, calm as a bloody Buddha. 

“And your bandages need changing,” Alfie huffed, feeling his wits leave him. 

“Alright,” Tommy said calmly and set the book down on the coffee table. 

Sartre, Alfie noticed the cover. Out of everything else on these shelves. 

“Right,” Alfie said and went back to the kitchen to grab the first aid kit. Tommy followed him and took his favorite spot by the window. Alfie closed the blinds out of habit, which turned out to be a sensible thing to do because Tommy took off his shirt as swiftly as a skilled stripper. 

“The fuck,” Alfie muttered to himself. Tommy just stared, with half-lidded eyes and these bloody long lashes. Alfie was about to throw hands.

“Something wrong?” Tommy asked, the bloody cheek on this boy, fuckin’ hell.

“Fuck you.”

“Sure.”

Whatever the fuck was that supposed to mean.

Alfie took out the scissors and slowly cut through the bandages, careful not to touch the wounds or scrape against the skin. The first piece went off and Alfie inspected the stitches on Tommy’s side. He touched near the slowly forming scar without thinking about it and Tommy giggled, then flinched.

The silence that fell between them was full of promise.

“Oh, what the fuck…” Alfie raised his eyebrows. 

Holy.

Shit.

On a stick.

Suddenly everything neatly clicked into place, like a jigsaw puzzle. The warnings, the barking, the sheer anxiety that Alfie might touch him… It wasn’t because Tommy knew why Alfie looked at him like that, it was because the goddamn bastard was…

“Ticklish, eh?” Alfie looked like someone had just offered him the rule over a small kingdom. 

“Fuck–” said Tommy but didn’t finish because Alfie reached for him and gently tickled his side. The sound that Tommy made, the yelp and the laughter, was honestly the best goddamn song Alfie had heard _in his life._

“FUCK!” Tommy rubbed his face, notably with both his hands now. Alfie saw he was trying not to smile. Honestly, making him smile and laugh like that, that was…

“Holy shit.” Alfie sat down, seemingly now keeping his hands to himself.

Tommy left his spot then and pointed a finger at Alfie, eyes wide and cheeks rosy.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, no, mate believe me… not my intention.”

“Alfie.”

Ah, the warning tone. The deeper one. Alfie was in love with that one. 

“Don’t. Fucking. Tickle me!”

 _Oh,_ this was going to be a blast. Honestly. Suddenly, Alfie had the upper hand and he _lived_ for it. Especially since Tommy was now in Alfie’s favorite position of all: hair tousled, eyes wide open, no control over the situation.

“Right, but you still need bandages, mate.” Alfie tried to stay reasonable but his eyes must have revealed his true intentions because Tommy grabbed the scissors from the table and pointed them at him.

“Stay the fuck back, I will stab you, Alfie, I swear to fuck, I will!”

 _Fuck almighty,_ more talk like that and Alfie will have to marry him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, mate. Scary little gangster you are, hm.”

“I’m not–”

Tommy didn’t take into account, and couldn’t really since Alfie never mentioned it before, but Alfie had a sister, alright. So sibling fights were not something he was unfamiliar with. Alfie moved towards him and Tommy yelped and backed up, the chair falling behind him. Nothing happened, though, Alfie was just teasing. He leaned back into his seat now, stroking his beard.

“That… is a thing of beauty. Yeah.”

“That’s it,” Tommy huffed. “Where is your phone?” Short of breath, running on adrenaline, and still shirtless, Tommy went back to the living room.

“Mate, come on. You’ll get a fuckin’ infection!” Alfie shouted behind him. He sighed, took the bandages and followed Tommy. “Get the fuck back to the kitchen, fuck’s sake, half-naked and pretty in my living room, what are the neighbors gonna say…”

Alfie didn’t account for the fact that Tommy was a sneaky bastard. Injured, still weakened from morphine, but a fucking survivor nonetheless. Alfie entered the room and was immediately attacked from behind, though admittedly not in a way that he would usually expect from a colleague in their specific business. 

Tommy grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around and kissed him. It was a deep kiss, a desperate kind, with teeth and tongue searching, not really knowing what goes where yet but definitely _wanting._

Alfie was out of breath immediately, all the blood rushed from his brain to his cock and he knew he lost that battle. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away now. He finally got what he was pining after for nearly a year, and God almighty, maybe You do exist…

But then, of course, his mind sounded the alarm because it was a Monday, mid-day. And his windows were wide open. Shit. He grabbed Tommy’s waist, mindful to be as gentle as possible, and tried to walk him back to the kitchen, which of course backfired immediately since Tommy interpreted it as Alfie being back on his bullshit.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” This time Tommy was furious and Alfie for the first time considered if he should get his gun.

“I’m going to kill you!” Tommy hissed.

“Tommy… Now.” Alfie cleared his throat. “Mate. Listen.” He took a step back towards the kitchen and thankfully Tommy followed him. 

“Stop calling me your fucking ‘mate’!”

Alfie retrieved a bit more and Tommy followed, but again – Alfie underestimated the man. Once they were close enough, Tommy grabbed Alfie’s side with his left hand, surprisingly gently.

That produced a whiny sort of laugh that Alfie very much tried to cover up.

 _Oh no,_ said Alfie’s eyes.

“Oh, yesss…” Tommy hissed, smiling evilly before he rushed towards Alfie, ready for revenge and a proper tickle fight. Alfie really didn’t want to be chased around his own house, he really didn’t need that sort of thing at his current age, but then again Tommy was looking positively _vicious_ and revenge-hungry. 

Then, the phone rang. Alfie looked towards it and took a deep breath. Tommy sighed and looked back towards Alfie’s shirt, now discarded on the kitchen floor. 

The reality sunk back in.

Tommy seemed to have been contemplating something now, something that Alfie seriously didn’t want to get his hopes up for. 

“I’ll get that,” Alfie said pointlessly instead and went.

“What do you want?” he barked into the receiver.

“And good morning to you too, Mr. Solomons!” John chirped happily at the other end of the line.

Alfie stayed silent for a minute, considering his options.

“He ain’t here,” he lied smoothly.

“Who? Tommy? Oh, no. We know he is. We just saw you two out the window. Just ringing to give you the heads up, mate, right, so… We’re having a drink in the restaurant next door, Polly is trying to stop Arthur from murdering you right then and there… Man, you fucked up his nose for good! But anyway, my plan worked brilliantly, so. I’m gonna be the family liaison. Don’t tell Tommy I’m coming. And make him wear a fuckin’ shirt, yeah?”

“Plan?!” Alfie growled. “What the fuck, Shelby…”

“Oh, fuck you for pretending you two idiots haven’t been pining after each other like crazy for the past year! We can’t stand it anymore back at the house! Alright, Polly ordered another round, that should at least make Arthur decently drunk before he sees you. Don’t know if it’s a good thing. I’ll come over in two minutes!”

Alfie hung up the receiver and looked around his apartment, as if to check he was still here and his soul hadn’t left his body or something. Bloody Shelbys. They’re gonna be the death of him, starting with the prettiest man in England, still sitting comfortably in his kitchen, with Alfie’s shirt still on the floor. Tommy looked at him almost expectantly when Alfie slowly came back.

“Right… That was your brother,” Alfie said. 

“Which one?” Tommy asked, voice quiet and slightly hollow.

“The normal one. I think. Look, he’s coming over and you can either greet him with a shirt on or off, I don’t care, but I’m gonna make tea. So make yourself useful, grab me that kettle.”

Tommy did as he was told, which honestly would’ve made Alfie enjoy this more had it not been for a prompt knock on the door. When he looked back at Tommy, he had the shirt back on.

“Right, that’s your brother. You go, eh? You, he won’t shoot.”

Tommy sighed and went to open the door. 

“Tommy!” John’s happy voice filled the corridor. Tommy, clearly the affectionate one, said nothing.

“Where’s your boyfriend, then?”

“He’s making–” Tommy stopped himself for a second. Alfie eavesdropped in the kitchen, busying himself with tea, but he also made sure that the gun he kept in the cutlery drawer was still there. He placed it now near the stove, just in case. In the meantime, John was explaining to Tommy what he had told Alfie over the phone, and they entered the kitchen one after the other. Friendly enough, Alfie supposed, but still. He was a hard man to trick. John will have to do better than that.

“Alright, we're having tea!” John was clearly very happy with himself. He even took off his cap and coat so maybe he didn’t want to shoot Alfie, not yet. From the corner of his eye, Alfie noticed that John eyed the first aid kit that was still laid out on the table.

“Fuckin’ hell, Tom. What does it look like? The shot–”

“‘M fine,” Tommy said, despite now being tense and pale and definitely the English language dictionary’s definition of _not fine_. “You got any cigarettes?”

“Oh, sure.” John took out his pack but not before Alfie bellowed at them not to smoke in his fuckin’ kitchen. John just shrugged at his brother, as if to say, “sorry, mate, your boyfriend scares me more than you.”

Alfie put the tea on the table and three glasses. Then, he noticed blood on Tommy’s (his) shirt and swore under his breath. 

“Oh, fuck, Tom!” John was first to grab the first aid kit but Alfie slapped his hands away.

“Wash your bloody hands and pour your brother some tea, eh?” The entire sentence was nice enough but Alfie’s tone suggested certain death in case of no cooperation.

John only huffed but stood up and went to the sink muttering something about someone named Polly.

“Bloody savage, the lot of you,” Alfie muttered under his breath. “Alright.” He raised his (Tommy’s) shirt and looked at his side, where one stitch was definitely torn. Their eyes met and the smile that Tommy gave him was pure sunshine. 

John watched them intently, as he poured the tea. Alfie noticed then that he had his back turned to the younger Shelby, like a moron. Then, however, John giggled and said:

“Bloody idiots, both of you.” 

He snickered again and Alfie heard the sound of matches and the window opening. The lad at least had the decency to open a window before lighting a cigarette. “So, Alfie?”

Alfie tensed then, not really prepared for John of all people to call him by his first name. Before threatening bodily harm, though, John decided to obliterate him, his pride, and everything Alfie stood for by cheerfully remarking:

“I was thinkin’ of a spring wedding, right, but Tommy would make an excellent winter bride. Thoughts?”


End file.
